A Bit More
by Idle Leaves
Summary: Weeks later, Miles wants to know if Julian meant what he said in Sloan's corridor.


**Disclaimers:** I make absolutely no claims to these characters; they are the sole property of their original creator/author. I make no profit from this work of fiction, and no disrespect is intended.  
**Rating:** PG. (Pre-slash)  
**Cast:** Miles O'Brien, Julian Bashir.  
**Notes:** A first for the pairing and a first for the fandom. Feedback is appreciated.  
**Canon/Timeline:** The night before Miles leaves DS9 to return to Earth; contains references to the final episode, "What You Leave Behind", and is based on a conversation from "Extreme Measures", to the point where it may not make sense unless you're familiar with it. (For a short transcript, see schism . pillowfort . org / measures . txt, without the spaces.)  
**Summary:** Weeks later, Miles wants to know if Julian meant what he said.

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**A BIT MORE**  
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One thing that could be said for Julian is that he had an exceptional memory. He was able to recall minor details of documents he hadn't read since the Academy and situations he hadn't experienced in years, piecing the details together, drawing links that other doctors tended to overlook, and coming to solid, logical conclusions. This aptitude for deductive reasoning, unfortunately, didn't seem to extend beyond the realm of science.  
  
Sitting on the one of the only remaining pieces of furniture in his packed and almost-empty quarters, nine hours before the departure of his transport to Earth, with Julian at his side and a passing reference in conversation to the final incident with Sloan, Miles took a long swallow of ale and casually--only not casually at all--asked "Did you mean what you said?", hoping that Julian, for just once in his personal life, could manage to put two and two together and not come up with seventeen.  
  
"What I said when?" was his request for clarification.  
  
Miles shrugged. "In the corridor."  
  
Julian just tilted his head, brow furrowing the way it always did when he set himself to contemplation. "The corridor," he repeated, then, "Of course I meant it," he said, tone light but not dismissive, almost offhand.  
  
Carefully-planned conversations rarely, if ever, carry through as imagined. He'd thought up different comebacks to different responses--hours ago, days ago--but none of them seemed appropriate. "Just checking," he said, with a nod. Maybe they weren't appropriate, or maybe he was stalling the conversation intentionally, in the hopes that it'd backtrack, to darts and the Alamo--things that didn't require him talking while looking at the walls, or refilling his glass quite so often.  
  
"Checking," Julian said, perhaps somewhat doubtfully.  
  
"Yes. _Checking_." Most people would back off at his tone of voice, but most people weren't Julian. It was common knowledge that he was as good at persisting in a line of questioning as Miles was at getting annoyed by said questioning. Except, for some reason, this time, Julian was doing nothing more than drinking and being rather unexpectedly quiet.  
  
The best Miles could come up with, on the spur of the moment, was "Meant it how?"  
  
Julian just brought his hand up to rub the back of his neck. Miles watched, out of the corner of his eye--that was another one of Julian's habits, but mostly when he didn't quite know how to put something into words. Miles waited. "I just meant it, is all," was Julian's eventual response.  
  
"I meant it when I said I loved my wife," Miles said, feeling like he was repeating himself, but there was nothing but truth in the statement. He had his wife to go home to, his consistency when the rest of the quadrant had been in flux, and he had his daughter, with her contagious smile and her complete incomprehension of what the termination of the war had meant.  
  
"Miles," said Julian, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. "I know you meant that. That was never the question." His voice was soft rather than sarcastic, and the look on his face belied a desire to know more.  
  
It was no sacrifice, the move home; Miles had promised to offer his family a safer life, sometime, and the opportunity had come. But along with all this, with his wife and child and career and decisions, there was also Julian, with whom he'd shared drinks and battles, both real and re-enacted, and who didn't resort to uncomforting--if well-meaning--platitudes when he was in a foul mood. With whom he shared things of a different, not lesser, importance.  
  
"Right," Miles continued. "Well." He swirled the liquid around in the bottom of his glass. "Maybe you were right, too. A bit." After a long moment, he ventured a glance in Julian's direction.  
  
Julian was watching him, carefully, a mix of something in his eyes that was probably an attempt at neutrality. It wasn't entirely successful, but resolved, slowly, into some form of understanding. He nodded slightly, and set his glass down on the table, offering a half-smile that was less than convincing.  
  
Four, not seventeen.  
  
Julian broke eye contact to glance at the timepiece on the wall. "It's... getting late," he said, with a hint of awkwardness, and got to his feet. "Ezri's--"  
  
"Yeah. Go."  
  
"What time does the transport leave?"  
  
"Thirteen hundred hours." Julian stepped through the door and turned around, hand against the frame.  
  
"I'll be there," Julian said with a decisive nod.  
  
"You don't--"  
  
"Yes," Julian cut him off. "I do." His smile this time was closer to a grin, closer to familiar, and he headed down the corridor.  
  
When the sound of his footsteps faded, Miles allowed the door to close.  
  
An odd heaviness settled in the pit of his stomach; tomorrow he'd be on his way home, and would find his family waiting. The window across the room hadn't had a blind since he'd packed, and he squinted into the distance in the direction of Earth.  
  
-- finis


End file.
